


The Great Bird Boy Bake-Off, or The One Time Clint Took Responsibility and Nothing Exploded

by LizzieHarker



Series: A Comedy of Arrows [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: A Comedy of Arrows, Baking, Buck and Steve have an unconventional family, Clint Barton: Pastry Chef, Clint has hidden Talents, Cooking, Gen, Hand Jobs, M/M, Natasha's having none of your patriarchy thanks, POV Bucky Barnes, Shower Sex, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Bucky Barnes, aka The Winter Soldier, woke up from cryosleep, dismantled the trigger words in his head, and resumed dating Steve Rogers.Things are great and he's looking forward to a nice Thanksgiving meal with his best guy.What Bucky didn't expect was to walk into another B&E, courtesy of Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, aka his best bro.And this time, to Bucky's bafflement, the B stands for baking.





	The Great Bird Boy Bake-Off, or The One Time Clint Took Responsibility and Nothing Exploded

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to IAmCoffeeHawk for all the baking help. I'm not a baker. She is. I just write about it and get frustrated edit-texts correcting my use of "pastry dishes" to "pie plates."*
> 
> *I've just been informed it's pie _pan_...

Bucky tucked his yoga mat beneath his arm and stepped on the street just as Steve came jogging up, his smile bright. His heart fluttered; there was no better sight in the world than Steve’s smile, and Bucky basked for a moment because that smile? It’s all his. Steve flicked Bucky’s ass with the towel he wore and never used, turning around to place himself at Bucky’s right and slide an arm around his shoulders. Bucky leaned in for a quick kiss. Goddamn, life was good.

“How was your run, you goddamn heathen?” he asked, encircling Steve’s waist with his free arm. Buck had tried the running thing and fuck any activity that required getting up before the sun.

“Refreshing as always. How was your new fancy yoga mat, my hipster princess?”

Right, but not even his yoga class happened before 9 a.m., and sometimes even that was a stretch. “Fucking amazing. Still needs some airing out, but my practice felt much better. Besides, you love how flexible I am,” Bucky teased.

Steve smirked. “That I do.” He stretched his neck, settling into post-run relaxation. “Man, I’m glad we got that in. We gotta ton of cooking to do now.”

“We?”

“I can help! C’mon, Buck, lemme help.” He poked out his bottom lip and widened his eyes.

Bucky sighed. He never could deny Steve Rogers a damn thing, and the puppy eyes made it worse. “Fine.”

Steve moved back to wrap both arms around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky laughed, falling back into him. “Mmm, you think we got time for a post-work, pre-cooking romp? Maybe fool around in the shower?”

A shivered raced down his spine. Good god, he loved this man. His blood went hot thinking of all the things he could do to and with Stevie, even on a deadline. “I think I can pencil you in.”

It was wonder they made it back to the apartment at all between making out and heavy petting. Part of the reason Bucky wore this particular pair of yoga pants was how good they made his ass and thighs look, and yeah, okay, the entire reason, but goddamn, he deserved it, and Steve deserved it. Whatever fucking black magic currently kept Steve’s shirt on his chest would fail the moment Buck managed to open the door and tear it the hell off him. With Steve’s tongue in his mouth, Steve’s hand cupping the front of his pants, Bucky nearly broke the lock, the door crashing into the wall as they crossed through. Steve kicked it shut behind them and Bucky tossed his mat down, tangling both hands into Steve’s hair.

Steve stopped, but instead of moving down Bucky’s jaw to his neck, he frozen entirely.

Bucky’s buzz faded enough for him to hear the television he hadn’t left on playing footage of the Macy’s Day Parade. He turned his head and found Natasha curled up on their sofa, pulling apart a cinnamon roll. She didn’t so much as bat an eye.

“Hey, boys. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Why are you on our couch?” Steve asked, still hanging on Bucky.

A crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by, “It’s fine! I’m fine! Broken glass adds flavor, right?”

“And why is Clint in my kitchen?” Bucky added, gaze shifting past the entry.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Natasha said, popping another bite into her mouth.

Bucky crossed his arms. “Eto ne otvet, Natalia.”

She smiled and said nothing. Of course. Bucky tugged Steve after him, heading for their bedroom.

“Uh, Buck, we have guests,” Steve said, craning his neck for a peak at whatever destruction Clint had caused.

“All the more reason to clean up, babydoll,” Bucky purred. “We’re in charge of sides. Right now, the only side I want is a piece of that ass.”

Bucky found Steve beautiful all the time, but never so much as when he lit up, that full body blush a one-way ticket straight to Bucky’s dick. Steve kissed him back as Bucky ripped that shirt off him, shedding his own clothes in seconds and stripping Steve as quick. The shower rained down warmth and Bucky pulled Steve close, skin to skin, hands dragging down along Steve’s back.

“Buck, wait,” Steve panted, and Bucky stopped. “We can’t. I wanna—fuck, I wanna—but Nat and Clint are here.”

“C’mon, babydoll. Ain’t like they got enhanced hearing. Hell, Barton’s deaf and half the time he can’t remember to turn on his ears, anyway. And Natasha doesn’t care.” He licked at Steve’s neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just behind his jaw, sucking softly at the pulse point. “Plus our bedroom and bathroom are sound proof. Please, baby. Nothing like coming to get you all relaxed and ready before dealing with family.”

Steve hedged. Bucky wore him down like second nature. That denying Steve what he wanted thing? That went both ways.

“Lemme take care of you, Stevie.” Bucky reached for the bar of soap and began lathering Steve’s shoulders. He angled his lower body away, and it took all of five seconds for Steve to press them hip to hip. Bucky switched the bar to his left hand, rubbing his right down Steve’s chest. He always marveled at his Stevie now, broad and well-muscled where once he stood thin and hollow. The old anger at him for risking his life on fucking magic potion and a promise had fizzled out, but Bucky still thanked whatever god would listen that they’d made his lover well, that Steve’s lungs worked, and his heart beat right, that his spine held him straight and his joints didn’t ache. Bucky brushed his fingers over Steve’s heart, feeling that precious pulse beneath the skin. He cupped a hand beneath the water and poured it over Steve’s shoulder, rinsing away the soap before pressing his lips to Steve’s chest, darting out his tongue to taste clean skin. Steve’s fingers slid into his hair as Bucky licked at his nipple, circling his mouth for a long, sucking kiss. He graced the other side with the same treatment, delighting the way Steve let his head fall back, the moan escaping his lips. 

Steve tugged him back up, slotting their mouths together. Bucky let Steve taste every inch of him, rolling his hips forward and swallowing another groan from Steve. His metal fingers tripped down Steve’s abs and wrapped around their dicks, squeezing enough to make Steve collapse against Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky worked them both, rocking against Steve as Steve kissed at his neck. The promise of teeth spurred him on and yes, Steve bit him, sucking at the skin where Bucky’s shoulder met his neck. Breathing became harder, all the sparkles and lust pooling in his belly. Steve gave over biting for nuzzling, his breath hitching in the way Bucky knew meant he was close.

“That’s it, babydoll,” Bucky crooned, hand moving harder, faster, thumb skimming over the head of Steve’s cock. “C’mon, Stevie. Come for me.”

And Steve spilled, knees buckling, biting his lower lip, and goddamn if that sight didn’t send Bucky over the edge with him, leaving his blood all fizzy and his skin overly warm. When Steve pulled himself back together, he drew Bucky in for a kiss, moving from his lips to suck bruises onto his neck, his shoulder, his collarbones. Bucky laughed, full and deep.

“Feeling better?”

Steve nodded and turned Bucky around, Bucky’s back to his chest. “Feeling great, Buck. Your turn.”

“Already came. We can wait for after-dinner sex once we throw everyone out.” Bucky shrugged. “Or we can leave them to bag up the leftovers while I fuck you senseless.”

“Those are both fantastic plans, but I was thinking in the meantime you’d let me massage your shoulders and wash your hair as a thank you. You know, as a precursor. A promise.”

“Mmm, foreplay?”

“Something like that.” Steve kissed the back of his neck and Bucky tilted his head, content to let Steve have his way.

 

*

 

They emerged from the bedroom to find Natasha still on the couch, the parade rolling on. The crashing in the kitchen hadn’t paused, punctuated every so often by Clint swearing. Bucky glanced at Steve worriedly before tying his haired back.

“I have to go in,” he said. Who the fuck knew what damage Clint had done. He loved the guy, but his best friend was a mess. 

Steve took him by the shoulders, expression solemn. “I understand. You’re the bravest man I know, Bucky Barnes, and I can only pray you return to me.” He leaned into Bucky, a dramatic hitch in his voice. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“And I you,” Bucky sighed, reaching for Steve as he set off for the kitchen.

“Oh, when shall my husband return from the war?” Steve lamented, a hand to his forehead.

Natasha groaned. “Oh my god, the two of you are ridiculous.”

Bucky caught Steve blowing Natasha a kiss before he crossed into enemy lines. His jaw dropped. The kitchen, miraculously, sparkled, the only sign of Barton’s mayhem the coffee mug sitting on the counter among bags of flour, dough, and various odds and ends. The mess had been relegated to Barton himself, Bucky’s apron slung around his waist. Not that it helped. Flour dusted his hair and something purple stained his shirt. Clint spared one look at him and glared.

“Out! I’m working.”

“Barton, it’s my kitchen.”

“I didn’t see you cooking in it.”

“You have your own kitchen. In your apartment. On the other side of town,” Bucky said, making his way toward the fridge. He could work in the dining room if he grabbed what he needed.

“Bro, you’ve been in my apartment. S’a mess.”

Apparently, a liquor store had moved into their fridge while they’d been out. Must be Natasha’s offering. He pulled the bowl of hardboiled eggs out and set it on the counter. “I need to work in here, too, bird boy.”

“No one said I wasn’t good at sharing,” Clint answered, opening a can of pumpkin before turning to the oven. Whatever he removed smells like gingersnaps. He slid it into cooling rack and went back to mixing the pie filling. “Don’t interrupt my art, Barnes. I have a process and I need time and space to concentrate on my creations. You should know. You’re practically married to an artist.”

“Steve is usually covered in pastels, not pastry,” Bucky countered.

Steve chuckled. “Shut up, you love it. Nat, you planning on helping?”

“Nope,” she called. “Thanksgiving is a terrible holiday for women. We’re expect to cook, serve, and clean while the men sit around watching football. I’m fine where I am.”

Steve shrugged. “Guess it’s just us. Sam’s bringing the turkey?”

“Yeah. Who’s idea was it to host dinner at our place?” Bucky asked. “We could be having marathon sex instead.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Natasha answered.

Sliding the garbage can out of the kitchen, Steve sat at the breakfast bar and set to work peeling the eggs. “I don’t really know we had a choice. I recall being told, not asked.”

Bucky set another bowl beside Steve. “We are not hosting Christmas. Okay, you’re gonna take care of these while I roast the potatoes and veggies.” Steve blanched, opened his mouth, and Bucky held up a hand. “Deviled eggs are easy. I know you’ve seen my ma make ‘em a dozen times.”

“I might have been too busy watching you,” Steve muttered.

He smiled, reaching over to cup Steve’s cheek. “Peel the eggs. Slice ‘em in half the long way, scoop out the yolks and put them in this bowl,” Bucky said, tapped the bowl he’d set down. “Once you got them all done, I’ll show you how to mix up the yolks. You can handle this. You’ve gotten better at cooking. Just need to practice.”

Steve blushed. “I’ve got a great teacher.”

Bucky leaned forward and pecked him on the lips. “But I’m serious about Christmas. And Barton, we talked about this breaking and entering thing.”

“Already told you, not breaking if I have a key,” Clint answered. He dumped the mixing bowl into the sink and set to cleaning the dishes. “What’re you making?”

“Rosemary red potatoes, oven roasted garlic broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and green beans. If I have time, I might do a roasted acorn squash and portobello salad.”

Clint wrinkled his nose. “So futzing _green_. Why ya gotta be like that, bro?”

“Like what? A decent chef?”

“So _healthy_.”

Bucky arched a brow. “If you’d like something more traditional, I can always make my ma’s corned beef luncheon salad instead. Canned corned beef, peas, maybe some cabbage. ‘Course, it’s all suspended in gelatin so I’d have to pop down to the bodega and grab some.”

Clint gagged. “Please, no. I dunno how you guys survived that. Not that I had much better, but at least it wasn’t in futzing gelatin.”

“It was eat or starve, Clint,” Steve said. “Mostly, we starved. I kinda miss it though. The food, not the starving. What are you baking?”

Clint beamed. “Pie.”

Buck and Steve exchanged a glance. “Elaborate?” they asked.

“Thanksgiving pie,” he said, returning to the dishes.

“Stevie, if there wasn’t a pot of coffee brewing, I’d say this wasn’t our bird boy.”

He set to work chopping the potatoes (he’d rinsed and cleaned everything before they’d left), pausing to show Steve how to mash the egg yolks and mix the filling before scooping it into the hollowed whites. Steve artfully decorated the tops with a sprinkle of paprika. And because he was a shit, he popped one into his mouth.

“S’good,” he said around the mouthful. Bucky rolled his eyes and put them back into the fridge. 

Clint set a bag of apples and a potato peeler in front of Steve. “You wanna help? Peel these.”

Steve swallowed. “Sure. You’re making an apple pie?” He failed to hide his grimace. Bucky found it endlessly ironic that Captain America hated apple pie. Steve’s favorite had always been cherry.

“You don’t have to eat it. Not everything is about you,” Clint chided.

Bucky reached out a hand to smooth Steve’s hair. “Don’t be mean to him, Clint. He’s just asking.”

“Sorry,” Clint said. “Gotta lot to do.” He stalked back to the opposite counter to roll out more dough. 

How many pies was that guy making?

Clint turned back around at the loud crunch from the breakfast bar, eyes wide. Steve smirked around the chunk of apple in his mouth.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You don’t _like_ apple pie.”

“I like apples,” Steve said. “S’good one, too.”

“I know. I bought the correct amount, Steven.”

Bucky snorted. “Did you just call him Steven?”

“He _ate_ my apple.”

Bucky plucked the apple from Steve’s hand and rinsed it. “He took a bite. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Just peel them. No, just peel. I’ll chop them. Stop eating my ingredients.”

Steve locked eyes with him and raised another apple to his mouth.

Without looking away, Clint picked up a pairing knife. A flick of his wrist, and the blade sank into the apple between Steve’s thumb and finger. Wide-eyed, Steve dropped it, closing his mouth with a click of teeth. A sly grin spread across Clint’s face. Steve moved his chair over, hiding behind Bucky.

“Yeah, maybe don’t throw knives at my boyfriend,” Bucky said.

From the couch, Natasha laughed. “Don’t worry, Rogers. It’s how he shows affection. Did that to me once, too.”

Clint’s smirk deepened. “I’ve seen that drawer in your bedroom. I know you’re kinky as hell.”

Steve flushed, the color spreading down his neck. “Bucky, help.”

“Then you know we got enough harnesses and rope to tie your ass down and leave you somewhere until after dinner,” Bucky said. “Gag included.”

Clint leaned against the counter, all long legs and toothy grin. “Don’t tease.”

“That offer available to all your guests?” Natasha asked, taking a beer out of the fridge.

Bucky shook his head, contrite. “We live in an apartment, Nat. No room for a dungeon.”

“I’m pretty sure you two have a sex swing, somewhere.”

“We did, but it’s real hard to find toys that hold up to supersoldier sex. Stevie, you okay?”

Steve had his face buried in his arms on the table, a high-pitched whine coming from his throat.

Nat shut the fridge with her hip. “Now I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”

Steve’s whine intensified. Bucky rubbed his back. “Aw, baby.”

The chirp of the oven timer saved Steve from more teasing. Clint took the pie from the oven and set it out to cool, slotting another pie into place and closing the door. Steve peeled the apples and pushed the bowl away, dropping the pairing knife into the sink afterward. Warm, rich scents filled the apartment, earthy and sweet. He liked Thanksgiving; good food, his best friends, time spent together. He meant it about Christmas, though. Christmas was for him and Steve. 

Bucky leaned against the counter, watching Clint bustle about.

“You gonna be done, soon? I need the oven, too.”

“Just leave it there. I’ll put the tray in. Go hang out with Nat or something.”

“You kickin’ me out of my own kitchen?”

Clint glanced at the oven and back. “Yes.”

“Bird boy, you got another thing coming if you think—”

Nat sidled up beside Steve, wiggling her shoulder against his. “Hey, did Clint ever tell you what happened in Budapest?”

Bucky got the rare treat of seeing Clint flush as Steve sat up, clearly interested. “Why, no. No, he did not.”

“Natasha, don’t you dare.”

“C’mon, boys, let’s have a little chat,” Nat said, tugging Steve’s arm. He followed, a spring in his step, and Bucky made to go after them. Dirt on Barton: an even rarer treat. 

“We are not talking about Budapest, Nat!” Clint yelled. “Nat!”

They settled on the couch beside her, and her smile changed, just a little, to her knowing something she wouldn’t share. “He really likes you, you know. He doesn’t,” she started, and then gestured toward the kitchen, “for most people.”

Steve looked back at the kitchen, a thoughtful expression on his face. Bucky sulked. “So you’re not gonna tell us about Budapest.”

Natasha shrugged. “He remembers it differently anyway.”

Twenty minutes later, Clint emerged from the kitchen, stripping off his shirt as he went. Bucky’s jaw dropped, but before he could say anything, Clint grabbed another shirt from a bag on the other side of the couch and pulled it on.

“Uh, dude. Is that revenge for the bondage joke? Cause you can’t just strip in front of me and not lemme enjoy the show.”

Clint sank to the floor in front of Natasha and picked up the last cinnamon roll. “Gotta finish dinner before you get dessert, Barnes.”

“Already had dessert,” he answered, nuzzling Steve’s neck.

Steve snorted. Chuckling, Natasha slipped her fingers into Clint’s hair and scritched at his scalp. He shivered, relaxing into her, and devoured the pastry. He was out cold fifteen seconds later. Buck blink, impressed.

Steve leaned against him, the rest of the parade playing out on the screen. The familiar sound of a key at the front door called his attention away from doting on his boyfriend. 

“Probably Sam,” Steve muttered.

“Sam doesn’t have a key and he’s polite and actually knocks if he doesn’t call ahead to let us know he’s coming,” Bucky said,

Sure enough, the door swung wide, framing Katie-Kate for a second before she bustled through, all bright smiles and cheer. “Hello, my fellow former Avengers! Happy eat until you wanna die day!”

“Does everyone have a key to our apartment?” Steve asked.

“We really need to change the locks. Again.”

Natasha tugged on Clint’s hair to wake him up. He turned and bit her knee in retaliation, and Natasha pushed him to the floor. “Ugh, gross.”

“There’s my guy!” Katie exclaimed.

“Aw, thanks Hawk-” Clint started, cutting himself off when Lucky wandered out from Steve’s studio. “Sure. I make you a pie to impress your friends and this is the thanks I get.” Pushing himself off the floor, Clint muttered all the way back to the kitchen. 

Steve took Clint’s place and Lucky threw himself at Steve for pets. A grin spread over Bucky’s face. They both loved that one-eyed pizza dog.

Clint returned with a pie pan and a triumphant expression. “One cider caramel apple pie in a vodka crust, courtesy of the best Hawkeye.”

Kate lit up. “Thanks, Clint. I really owe you one or something. America’s gonna be so jealous when I tell her.”

Steve looked up at Clint, eyes sad. “That pie’s for Kate? But . . . I kinda want to eat it now. That sounds really good, Clint.”

Clint sighed, exasperated.

Katie-Kate narrowed her eyes at Steve, absently rubbing Lucky’s ears. She kept her voice soft as she said, “I know what you did,” before popping up to hug Natasha, peck Bucky on the cheek, and slug Clint in the arm as she liberated the pie from him. 

“Thanks so much, bye!” She skidded out the door and down the hall, leaving a baffled Steve hugging Clint’s dog.

“Gotta admit, I’m a little sad I won’t get to eat that one, either,” Bucky said.

Clint stretched and sprawled himself across Bucky. “I’ll make you one for Christmas.” He snuggled down and dropped straight into another nap.

Steve pouted. “That’s my spot.”

Natasha just looked at them, expression unreadable. “I guess I’ll go set the table,” she offered. “Sam’ll be here in ten.”

“He didn’t call,” Bucky said, contemplating what to do with a lapful of bird boy.

“He texted me half an hour ago to say he’d be over in forty.”

Bucky stroked Clint’s hair and Clint snuggled harder. Cuddle whore. “What a fucking weird family we’ve acquired, Steve.”

“Yeah, but I kinda like them,” Steve answered.

Lucky abandoned Steve’s lap to scratch at the door, and even Bucky could smell the turkey from the hall. Considering Clint still occupied him like a body pillow, Bucky gestured for Steve to let Sam in.

“Y’all are in for a real treat. Ain’t no better turkey out there than my momma’s,” Sam said, a roasting pan in his hands and two bags hanging from his arms. Steve took the turkey and led Sam to the table. Bucky waved from the sofa.

“Barton, c’mon. Get off me,” Bucky said, nudging him.

“No.”

“Seriously, bro. Sam’s here. Dinner.”

Clint nuzzled into Bucky’s neck. “Too warm. Gonna stay here.”

“Natalia, zabrat’ svoyego pitomtsa.”

Clint sat up at glowered. “Rude.” He rolled off Bucky and sulked toward the kitchen.

Nat continued setting the cutlery out. “On ne moy pitomets,” she answered. Her gaze flickered up to meet Bucky’s. “On tvoy.”

“Hey, no Russian at the dinner table,” Sam scolded. “Clint, get the rest of the stuff out of the kitchen, please.”

“At least one of us manages to be an adult around here,” Bucky muttered.

Sam looked at him point-blank, taking a seat. “Yeah, and you’re the other one most of the time.”

“Don’t remind me.” 

From the corner of his eye, Bucky caught something shoot across the room and nail Natasha in the back. The dinner roll bounced to the floor, where Lucky immediately claimed it. Natasha’s slow turn came straight outta one of those horror movies, her focus locking on Clint. He _squeaked_ and crouched behind Steve for protection. Steve glanced over his shoulder and walked around the table to sit beside Bucky.

“Steve, no!” Clint cried. “You can’t betray me like that!”

“You threw a knife at me. She can have you. Do your worst, Romanoff.”

“You were eating apples for a pie that _wasn’t even for you_ ,” he bit.

Slowly, Natasha pulled out her chair and sat, gaze never wavering. The chair across from her shot out. 

Clint had no where else to sit. He whimpered, pleading for mercy with his eyes.

Steve leaned toward Bucky, mock whispering, “What do you think she’s gonna do?”

“Nothing in front of witnesses,” Bucky answered. He handed Sam the carving knife, and Sam set to work on the turkey.

Dinner, of course, proceeded with happy chatter followed by silence as everyone ate. And, per Sam’s rules, no further Russian or bloodshed ensued. Clint vanished toward the end of the meal, clearing some of their plates out of the way and setting out clean ones. A nervous grin twisted his mouth when he returned, arms filled with pie pans. Bucky knew he and Steve didn’t have that many (in fact, they had none), and considering they were all purple, Clint had to have brought them from his apartment. Which . . . why did Clint have pie pans? The plural caught Bucky off guard, even as Clint set one of the pies before him. 

Clint pointed to each one in turn. “Gingersnap pumpkin pie with candied pecans, if you want something traditional; cranberry pie topped with walnut crumble. Oh, and the last one’s a coffee chess pie with whiskey whipped cream because who the futz would I be if I didn’t make a coffee dessert and no, it isn’t tiramisu, you’re welcome.”

“And that one’s mine,” Bucky said, reaching for the chess pie. “You had me at whiskey whipped cream.”

Suspicious, Sam studied the dessert selection, and then studied Clint. “You made these?”

Steve shrugged. “Broke into our apartment and took over the kitchen.”

Clint rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a little. “I like to bake. My ma used to let me help when I was little, before things got bad. Barney made fun of me because baking is for girls or whatever.” Clint rolled his eyes. He cut into the pumpkin pie and plated it for Sam. “I got placed in a foster home once without Barney, and my foster mom taught me how to do it myself. She was a nice lady. I’d like to think I’m making her proud.”

Natasha helped herself to some of the cranberry pie, grinning ear to ear. 

Steve held out his out his plate. “I’m sorry I ate your apple. May I have a slice of pumpkin pie, too?”

Clint cut another piece for Steve and handed it back, menace-free. 

Bucky, being Bucky, swiped the whipped cream off the chess pie with a metal finger and popped it into his mouth. “Holy shit, Barton. How the fuck did you manage this?”

A bright grin spread across Clint’s face. “Just wait until you taste the pie.”

*

As much as Bucky loved company, seeing everyone leave didn’t break his heart. Well, maybe Lucky leaving with Clint hurt a little. Sure, Lucky owned Clint, but Buck loved that dog something fierce. Between him, Stevie, and Clint, Lucky had eaten _well_. They’d all be getting a text lecture from Katie-Kate in the morning. She fed Lucky actual dog food instead of table scraps and pizza. Whatever. That dog was fat and happy. 

Steve helped him clean up the kitchen before Bucky dragged him back to their bedroom. Sleep sounded so good as they stripped down and slipped beneath the sheets. Cuddling up with Steve landed right at the top of his list of things he loved, next to whiskey whipped cream on pie. He’d bet whiskey whipped cream on Steve would be even better. He drifted off, making a note to text Clint for the recipe. 

Bucky felt warm and content, so the rather indignant squeak from the kitchen really put a crimp in his evening. He left his wonderfully warm bed—currently lacking one Steve—and found his boyfriend in the kitchen, standing naked before the fridge.

A late night turkey sandwich came as a surprise to no one—Buck included—because Steve’s super-metabolism was a bitch and a half. No, the surprise was Steve Rogers, bare to the world and chipmunk-cheeked, looking personally victimized by the raw dough drapping from his head onto his shoulder. A chunk of it loomed ominously from the ceiling.

Bucky stared. “It’s cold and sticky, isn’t it?”

Steve nodded, mouth too full of sandwich to speak.

“If you had stayed in bed, you could have been warm and sticky, but you picked a sandwich over me. I’m hurt, Steven. I suppose you want me to clean you up?”

He nodded again, and Bucky sighed, crossing into the kitchen for the paper towels. As he picked up the roll, something in the corner of the breadbox caught his attention. He opened it to find another pie, this one bright purple and decorated with little pastry leaves. 

_Grand Marnier spiked purple sweet potato pie. Best served warm. There’s extra ice cream in the fridge._

“Huh, Clint left us another pie,” Bucky said, picking the dough out of Steve’s hair and wiping it off his shoulder. He’d worry about the mess on the ceiling later.

Steve swallowed. “That was awfully nice of him.”

“Tomorrow, Stevie. We’ll eat it for breakfast tomorrow,” Bucky said. “Finish your sandwich and come back to bed. Or” —he smirked—“Leave it and come work up an appetite.”

Steve set the sandwich down and let Bucky pull him back toward their bedroom. “Gotta add one more item to the list of things I’m grateful for,” he teased.

“Oh, babydoll, s’gonna be more than one. Promise”

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you following the current major arc, this fic takes place about a year after the events of [Tell Me Nothing But Lies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12200094/chapters/27703626).
> 
> I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving if you celebrate and a wonderful day if you don't! <3  
> 


End file.
